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Osamu is such a problem child. Not that Atsumu was any better, but it was clear a semblance of a balance between them was in play.
Since the moment they were born, a difference could be hard to decipher between them two. Same soft cheeks, same big doe expression every time their mama sung them softly to sleep, same big and giggly smiles when their father blew raspberries into their cheeks during play time. To many, it was not obvious. “They were twins”, was enough of an explanation, and people stopped bothering to put work into noticing.
But it was important for them to know. For their mama and papa, it was their greatest discovery. Every day something else, every day a different dimple on a different cheek, a lighter tone in their bubbly laugh, a tighter grip on their finger when one of them fell asleep in their arms. Ever since the twins were born, mama and papa Miya made it their mission to differentiate their sons between eachother.
There were little tells between them, that now their parents have mastered with days and weeks spent around their babies.
The most substantial being Osamu babbling and looking at his giggling brother in wonder,No attempt to join in on the fun baby Atsumu had. It was substantial for children to have their playtime. Supervised, baby proof floor and two parents at the ready to help their baby wobble up on their own two feet...before plopping their butts down back on the floor, little hands grasping onto literally anything to put it in their mouths in between squeals and childish laughs. The usual.
But Osamu didn't seem interested in any toy in front of him.
He always seemed to follow his twin with his gaze though. A curious hum, a silent smile, little gums with no teeth and little tongue peeking out when his brother wobbled with the biggest smile ever over to him for a hug.
It was obvious after that who was the most energetic one. If Atsumu clapped and laughed, Osamu just answered with small 'whoa' and wide eyes, focused entirely on the shine his brother emitted. It was a small thing to notice, and many didn't pay attention to it because of exactly that.
That Osamu was silent. He smiled and babbled back when spoken to, but not with the same enthusiasm as his brother.
At first, it was a great worry for the Miya couple.
Osamu was always more tender with his actions. Atsumu was boysterious, explosive. That's not to say, that when it came to fights, they were exactly like this. They looked like clones of eachother when it came to fights and hand slapping came into play. Their cries were as loud as their screams were, their little bodies thrashing onto their play pad on the floor, red in the cheeks and tears absolutely wetting their chubby skin.
And Osamu is a mama's boy. Ever since he was born, he clung a bit tighter to his mother than Atsumu. His little hand was always curled for longer around his mother's than his father's. His little chubby body, so sensitive to everything around him, turned in his mother's embrace when she lulled him to sleep. A soft little whine and the biggest cold grey eyes watering up at her, with a barely conceded pout on his rosy lips, and his mama sighed and bent to pick him up yet again in her arms.
"Yer obviously a mama's boy, 'Samu." His father chuckled, looking down at his son with the softest eyes his wife has ever seen. Osamu smiled from under his tiny fists, eyes glowing and marvelling at his father so close to him with a soft giggle. "Look at'cha! Hoggin' all of her from me." His papa always joked, but it was never in a bad intent. It seemed more heartwarming and teasing than anything, sometimes saying it and caressing his palm down Osamu's head tenderly just for his son to explode into shy fits of giggles. He'd squeal and hide under his little chubby hands, chubby cheeks rosy and eyes closed with little lashes peeking through.
Osamu sometimes blew raspberries back at his papa, his hands flying up to hide his eyes but not conceal himself enough to not show his little smile, pink gums and little tongue appearing. The babe would instantly turn to his mother though, when his giggles got too loud, to press his cheek into her bosom and hide his tiny fit of laughter from the world, while his mother and father only smiled and cooed at the display, running their big hands over his tiny body with care.
Atsumu, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind who coddled him. Grandpa, grandma, uncle or papa, he was fine. He did get jealous of Osamu for always being taken care of by mama, and he always made sure for everyone to know it.
But she, with the patience of a saint, her husband really doesn't know how she does it, bargains with her little Atsumu for some time together after Osamu would go for his nap.
Osamu, the menace that he was, always made sure to need her when the napping time came along. Little grip tight on her shirt, wobbly lips pouting and grey blue eyes dark with skies of storms and lightnings. Despite how adorable it was, the horror of having Osamu break into a fit of cries and ragged breaths was not on her bucket list anytime soon. So she always scooped him up, gently shushing to him, palm quick to caress the redness out of his cheeks, and rub her thumb over his eyes to take away the sad tears threatening to spill. Just as quick as the lip wobbles and whimpers would come, would cease just as fast if given a few minutes and gentle kisses to his face. Now happily holding his mama's hand, giggling into her cheeks when she brought him up for a wet and loud kiss, clinging to her shirt and latching onto her breast every time she fed him.
She thought putting him to sleep was bad. And as a mother of two twins, it didn't take long for her to be proven wrong.
Putting her babes to sleep was easy talk.
The times she needed to feed him were, as she solemnly told her husband one day, the worst.
Osamu might be the calmer twin of the two, but he took more than Atsumu ever did from those dear to him. Be it toys, food, clothes, toys, love and attention included. Atsumu, bless his little careless soul, didn't give a single fly about it. As long as someone had a hand or made a funny face at him, Atsumu was satisfied.
But Osamu.
Osamu took it all and some more. Especially his mother's milk.
She found it both exasperating and endearing -and amusing - how often Osamu would cry throughout the house to breast feed him the first few months.
"Osamu, yer mama has other things to do, ya know?" she sighs one day, looking down at her little son latching onto her breast. Barely given time to pull her shirt down, Osamu is already whimpering with a bottom lip up at her, little fists tight in her shirt as he seems to want to pull it off himself.
And she can do nothing but smile warmly at him, sighing tiredly to herself. It doesn't take Osamu long to latch himself onto her breast, soft forehead and little button nose pressing up a bit higher on accident, his little mouth searching for her rose nub to suckle on. His soft cries were now muffled into her chest, his red blotchy cheeks turning back to their paler color once the sweet taste of milk hit his tongue when his target is found.
It was certainly a foreign feeling when Atsumu and Osamu nursed from her. She had no problem with two little babes needing milk from her, her body somehow able to produce enough for both of her sons' greedy little mouths. Their little tongues peeked in between their lips, their whimpers and cries for food would cease, and a mediating silence would fill the air.
She had time to think then. It felt like speaking was a foreign concept then, the only thought mulling on her mind the absolute calm of her sons.
She relished in the quietness, sometimes ending up sitting herself down on the loveseat in their nursery, head back against the backrest, eyes closed. Nobody bothered the mother then, not even the quiet and gentle suckles of her sons' drinking. It was, in fact, their gentle sighs against her chest, their little hands clinging to her dearly, that relaxed her shoulders. Her eyes would flutter closed, and an exhausted breath would leave her lungs. Her arms wound loosely around her little bundles of happiness, enough to support their heads against her chest, and enough not to let them fall. It was a practiced equilibrium now, one that has come to her like clockwork.
It was always, a tender awe in her gaze when her eyes would open back, to look at her sons. At how easily they calmed down after the first suckle.
Osamu's eyes, previously glossy with the threat of spilling tears, now fluttered closed, cold and grey stormy waters now calming down with a soft hum from his little chest. His hand, so small compared to her everything, poked out of the confines of his bundle of a blanket and reached for the side of the breast he was nursing from, settling into a small palm across the easily giving skin.
She smiled at her son, seemingly in disbelief and awe at how careful he seemed to be.
He squeezed the flesh, pawing softly at the fat beneath his chubby hands. A satisfied and satiated kitten, lulled to a sense of eternal comfort by his mother's touch.
And she only caressed her fingers over the slope of her son's full cheek, a dear sentiment behind her eyes as they admired her Osamu. His little crease in his brows, the scrunch of his nose, his eyes closed in pure, childish delight at the milk he keeps suckling for. The mother couldn't take her eyes off of him.
What else could she do? No words escape her, her throat suddenly tight with the grip her own child has on her. Osamu is so gentle, she thinks again and again. That tiny palm, a wonder to touch and hold. Little bones and soft skin, undeveloped everything, reaching still for her. Little fingers spread as far as they could go across, the palm chubby and fingers short, still in their youth. An aggressive pink expanded from the tips of his little fingers to his forearm, which just heated her son's very touch so much more.
He was so warm, so full of heat and life. Despite the cold color of his eyes, taken after his father's piercing glance, as icy and freezing as the South Pole of the Earth, Osamu was nothing but the definition of comforting heat.
Osamu was a gentle heat in the spring. The comfort of cherry blossoms on the side walks. The crisp blue color of the skies of yet another season. He was the last winds of winter, clinging to the bit of warm breeze of the following cycle.
She adjusted her baby in her hold, Osamu whining softly and clutching his little fist into his mother's breast at the sudden movement.
"Shh, babe..." she murmured out of instinct, eyes half lidded, her hush coming quick along with the back of her hand pressed against her son's forehead in comfort.
"Sorry." So small and fragile, sticking himself to her like she was his only source of light and warmth, even if he was perfectly bundled up in his favourite blanket, and his milk formula was ready to be warmed up at his command. Despite all of that, Osamu cuddled close to her, pressed his cheek to her breast and shared his little warmth with her the best he could.
Osamu clung to his mother the most. His source of security, a gentleness only her hand could flutter any of his cries into soft and tired whimpers. And it only brings longing to her heart. This little angel, her little boy, so depended on her for every need he has.
His eyes looking for her in the room when Osamu's playing with Atsumu. Quickly turning to smile at her, his little lips as wide as they can to show off his pretty pink gums and even pinker tongue, the absolutely delighted giggle that explodes out of him. Taking her finger in his hand, awning and wooing at it before bringing it to his mouth, prefering to bite and suckle gently on her finger instead of settling for his pacifier like Atsumu does.
Osamu is just...so small. So innocent. Her little baby boy, waddling to her or crawling across the floor at rapid speeds to catch onto Atsumu's onesie and bring them both down to the floor with a squeal for an adorable squabble. It is nothing but the definition of innocence. As a mother, it was a given her heart would ache like this, she expected it, really.
But seeing it first hand, is a feeling she cannot quite place for now. For quite a long time, in fact. And maybe… she didn’t want to divulge it. To search for it’s source, and find the reasoning. She’s afraid of it.
Of finding something she won’t be able to let go of.
Her hold tightens on her son just a bit, her smile turning too sensible for anyone to look at her. And her eyes, maybe gloss over with an infinite amount of love and devotion, for the little bundle of quiet joy in her arms. But she let's it overwhelm her for now. Let it flow into the quietness of the room, in her gentle and rhythmic rocking of her hips back and forth as she nurses Osamu, her hand too tender as it caresses the sensible top of his head.
"...yer my babe, aren'tcha, Osamu?"she whispers in the end, no word leaving her lips about the turmoil inside of her. Instead, she smiles down at her child, bottom lip quite trembling.
She always said their full names. Naming her children felt like the biggest blessing she could afford as a mother. Getting her sons placed into her arms for the first time felt like a breath of fresh air. Hearing their cries for their mother, for her comfort, for her presence alone. She was not told of the emotion that sound of two twin cries for her. For her alone. Sounds so desperate for a lick of comfort, for a hand to rub the top of their heads, a voice to sing them back into the peaceful slumber they were awakened from. It was nothing compared to anything she has ever experienced.
It brings a shaky breath out of her.
Osamu hums, a gentle, cooing sound of comfort coming from him, blinking his eyes open to look up at his mother.
And she feels herself freeze under the gentle stare. It was placating, long, and too intelligent. It stilled her breath, hoping, that the silence was enough to hide away the thoughts plaguing her mind.
Osamu was so smart.
An intelligent glint in his eye, an understanding of the world a child of his age shouldn’t understand. Osamu, her soft and greedy little boy, smiling wordlessly at her when she coos at him, hiding himself away in his palms with a soft giggle when his father when to blow a raspberry to his stomach.
Her smart little trouble, wasn’t he?
She couldn’t keep her hand from coming to his little head, big enough to fit in her palm. And it was so soft…it scared her. If she’s not careful—
Osamu only leans into her touch, little fist settling into one small chubby palm to the side of her breast. With a soft whine, he’s quick to fall asleep, soft warm breaths against her skin as she caresses all of him in the way she knows best. Still suckling, still breathing still clinging to her form. His little heart beating, one two three times, rhythmic with her own. How could it be possible that someone could be afraid to hurt another? The delicate short hairs on top of her son’s head, the petals of yellow dandelions.
Her home, her little life.
Her palm under his head, the crown of his head into the crook of her elbow, and his little body bundled up in his favorite blanket. Maybe just a tighter squeeze. Hold him just for a little bit longer.
Clouded eyes half lidded, Osamu still holds her gaze dearly. Little lashes framing big eyes, the greyed color blaming over his flushed little cheeks.
But there’s only silence.
And the mother can only listen to it linger, stretch on and on and on and on.
Nothing more for now.